Ruled Britannia Part 24

"Wherefore?" Shakespeare still held his voice down, but couldn't hold the anger from it--anger and fear often being two sides of the same coin. "Why else but for your show of witchery?"

"Witchery?" Cicely Sellis started to laugh, but checked herself when she saw how serious he was. "Thank you I be in sooth a witch?"

"I know not," he answered. "By my halidom, I know not. But this I know: no one else dwelling here hath the least doubt." He shook his head. "No, I mistake me. You are yet clean in Jack Street's eyes, for he recalleth naught of what you worked on him."

That got through to her. Her mouth tightened. The lines that ran to either corner of it filled with shadow, making her suddenly seem five years older, maybe more. Slowly, she said, "I but sought to forestall a foolish quarrel."

"And so you did--but at what cost?" Shakespeare's eyes flicked towards Sam King, who seemed to have set to work getting drunk. "Would you have the English Inquisition put you to the question?"

Cicely Sellis' gaze followed the poet's. "He'd not blab," she said, but her voice held no conviction.

"G.o.d grant you be right," Shakespeare said, wondering if G.o.d would grant a witch any such thing. "But you put me in fear, and I am a man who earns his bread spinning fables. Nay more--I am a man who struts the stage, who hath played a ghost, who hath known somewhat of strangeness. And, as I say, you affrighted me. What, then, of him?" His voice dropped to a whisper: "And what too of the Widow Kendall?"

"I pay her, and well." The cunning woman didn't try to hide her scorn. But her eyes, almost as green as her cat's, went back to Sam King. "I'd liefer not seek a new lodging so soon again."

"Again? Came you here, then, of a sudden?" Shakespeare asked.

Reluctantly, Cicely Sellis nodded. Shakespeare ground his teeth till a twinge from a molar warned he'd better do no more of that. Did the English Inquisition already know her name? Were inquisitors already poised to swoop down on this house? If they seized the cunning woman, would they seize her and no one else? Or would they also lay hold of everyone who'd had anything to do with her, to seek evidence against her and to learn what sort of heresy her acquaintances might harbor? Shakespeare didn't know the answer to that, but thought he could make a good guess.

"I meant no harm," Cicely Sellis said, "nor have I never worked none."

"That you have purposed none--that I believe," Shakespeare answered. "What you have worked . . ."

He shrugged. He hoped she was right. He hoped so, yes, but he didn't believe it, no matter how much he wished he could.

CAPTAIN BALTASAR GUZM?N looked disgusted. "I have just learned Anthony Bacon has taken refuge at the court of King Christian IV," he said.

Sure enough, that explained his sour expression. "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, then,"

Lope de Vega answered, "if its King will give shelter to a proved sodomite. He shows himself to be no Christian, despite his name--only a G.o.d-cursed Lutheran heretic."

Captain Guzm?n nodded. "Yes, and yes, and yes. Every word you say is true, Senior Lieutenant, but none of your truth does us the least bit of good. Denmark and Sweden persist in their heresy, as they persist in being beyond our reach."

"Yes, sir," Lope agreed. "A pity he escaped us. If you like, though, we can always go back and arrest his younger brother."

"Nothing is proved against Francis Bacon, and the family has connections enough that we cannot proceed against him without proof. That too is a pity." Guzm?n sighed. After a moment, though, he brightened. "Forty years ago, after Mary died and the English relapsed into heresy, who would have imagined we would grow strong enough to come here and correct them? In a generation or two, Denmark's turn, and Sweden's, may yet come."

"G.o.d grant it be so." De Vega crossed himself. So did his superior. With a grin, Lope went on, "I confess, your Excellency, I won't be sorry to miss that Armada, though."

"No, nor I." But Guzm?n's eyes glowed with what Lope recognized after a moment as crusading zeal.

"But after Denmark and Sweden are brought back into the true and holy Catholic faith, what then? The Russians do not admit the supremacy of his Holiness the Pope."

"Before I came to England, I'm not sure I'd ever even heard of Russia," Lope said. "Now I've talked to a few men who've been there. They say the weather in Russia is as much worse than it is here as the weather here is worse than Spain's. If that's so, G.o.d has already punished the Russians for their heresy."

"It could be," Guzm?n said. "But it could also be that the men you talked to are liars. I don't think any place could have weather that bad."

"You may be right, your Excellency." Lope snapped his fingers, remembering something. "With Anthony Bacon in Denmark, is there any word that Tom, the boy actor from Shakespeare's company at about the same time, is with him?"

"Let me see." Baltasar Guzm?n ran his finger down the report he'd received. He got close to the bottom before stopping and looking up. "He is accompanied by a handsome youth, yes. No name given, but . . ."

"But we are well rid of two sodomites, and the Danes are welcome to them," Lope said.

"We are well rid of them, yes, but better they should have gone to the gallows or the fire than to Denmark." Captain Guzm?n had no give in him.

And Lope could hardly disagree. "You're right, of course, your Excellency. With some luck, we'll catch the next ones we flush from cover before they can flee."

"Just so, Senior Lieutenant. Just exactly so." Guzm?n set down the paper. "Now you know my news.

What have you for me?"

"Shakespeare continues to make good progress on King Philip," de Vega answered. "I wish your English were more fluent, sir. I'd quote you line after line that will live forever. The man is good. He is sovery good, I find him intimidating when I sit down to write, even though he works in a different language."

"As things are, spare me the quotations," Guzm?n said. "If anything's more deadly than listening to verses you don't understand, I can't imagine what it is." He steepled his fingertips and looked over them at Lope. "You are writing again, then? In spite of the intimidation, I mean?"

"Yes, your Excellency."

"Part of me says I should congratulate you," Baltasar Guzm?n observed. "Part of me, though, believes I'm not keeping you busy enough. With everything else you have to do, how do you find time to set pen to paper?"

Guzm?n had a habit of asking dangerous questions. He also had a habit of asking them so they didn't sound dangerous unless his intended victim listened carefully. Otherwise, a man could easily launch into a disastrous reply without realizing what he'd done till too late. Here, Lope recognized the trap. He said, "I will answer that in two ways, your Excellency. First, a man who will write does not find time to do it. He makes time to do it, even if that means sleeping less or eating faster. And second, sir, lately I've had more help from Diego than I've been used to getting."

"Yes, Enrique mentioned something about that to me," Guzm?n said. "I would have thought you needed a miracle to get Diego to do even half the work a proper servant should. How did you manage it?"

"Maybe I was lucky. Maybe Diego saw the light," Lope answered, not wanting to admit his blackmail.

"Or maybe it's simply spring, and the sun is waking him as it does the frogs and the snakes and the dormice and all the other creatures that sleep through winter."

"A pretty phrase, and a pretty conceit," Captain Guzm?n said with a laugh. "But Diego has been your servant a long time now, and he's always been just as sleepy and lazy in the summertime as he has with snow on the ground. What's the difference now?"

"Maybe he's finally seen the error of his ways," de Vega replied.

"It could be. The only way he was likely to see such a thing, though, it seems to me, was up the barrel of a pistol," Guzm?n said. Lope didn't answer. His superior shrugged. "All right, if you want to keep a secret, you may keep a secret, I suppose. But do tell me, since you are writing, what are you writing about?"

By the way he leaned towards Lope, he was more interested than he wanted to let on. He'd always held his enthusiasm for Lope's plays under tight rein. Maybe, though, he really enjoyed them more than he showed. Lope said, "I'm calling this one El mejor mozo de Espa?a ."

" 'The Best Boy in Spain'?" Captain Guzm?n echoed. "What's it about, a waiter?"

"No, no, no, no, no." Lope shook his head. "The best boy in Spain is Ferdinand of Aragon, who married Isabella and made Spain one kingdom. I told you, your Excellency--Shakespeare's rubbing off on me.

He's writing a play about history, and so am I."

"As long as you don't start writing one in English," Guzm?n said.

"That, no." De Vega threw his hands in the air at the mere idea. "I would not care to work in a language where rhymes are so hard to come by and rhythms so irregular. Shakespeare is clever enough in English--just how splendid he would be if he wrote in Spanish frightens me."

"Well, he doesn't, so don't worry your head about it," Captain Guzm?n said--easier advice for him togive than for Lope to take. But he went on, "I did very much enjoy your last play, the one about the lady who was a nitwit."

"For which I thank you, your Excellency," Lope said.

"If this next one is as good, it should have a bigger audience than Spanish soldiers stranded in England,"

his superior said. "Write another good play, Senior Lieutenant, and I will do what I can to get both of them published in Spain."

"Se?or! " Lope exclaimed. Baltasar Guzm?n, being both rich and well connected, could surely arrange publication as easily as he could snap his fingers. Lope's heart thudded in his chest. He'd dreamt of a chance like that, but knew dreams to be only dreams. To see that one might come true . . . "I am your servant, your Excellency! And I would be honored--you have no idea how honored I would be--were you to become my patr?n." He realized he was babbling, but couldn't help it. What would I do, for the chance to have my plays published? Almost anything.

Guzm?n smiled. Yes, he knew what power he wielded with such promises. "Write well, Senior Lieutenant. Write well, and make sure the Englishman writes well, too. I cannot tell you to neglect your other duties. I wish I could, but I cannot."

"I understand, sir." De Vega was quick to offer sympathy to a man who offered him the immortality of print. He knew Captain Guzm?n was saying, Do everything I tell you to do, and then do this on your own. Normally, he would have howled about how unfair that was. But when his superior dangled the prospect of publication before him . . .

I am a fish, swimming in the stream. I know that tempting worm may have a hook in it. I know, but I have to bite it anyway, for oh, dear G.o.d, I am so very hungry.

SHAKESPEARE LOOKED AT what he'd written. Slowly, he nodded. The ordinary was quiet. He had the place almost to himself, for most of the folk who'd eaten supper there had long since left for home.

He had the ordinary so much to himself, in fact, that he'd dared work on Boudicca here, which he seldom did.

And now . . . Ceremoniously, he inked his pen one last time and, in large letters, wrote a last word at the bottom of the page. Finis.

" 'Sblood," he muttered in weary amazement. "Never thought I to finish't." Even now, he half expected the Spaniards or the English Inquisition to burst in and drag him away in irons.

But all that happened was that Kate asked, "What said you, Master Will?"

"Naught worth hearing, believe you me." Shakespeare folded his papers so no untoward eye might fall on them. "I did but now set down the ending for a tragedy o'er which I've labored long."

"Good for you, then," the serving woman answered. "What's it called, and when will your company perform it?"

"I know not," he told her.

"You know not what it's called?"

"Nay," Shakespeare said impatiently. Too late, he realized she was teasing, and made a face at her. "Iknow not when we'll give it." He avoided telling her the t.i.tle. She wouldn't know what it meant--no one without Latin would--but she might remember it, and an inquisitor might be able to tear it out of her.

Shakespeare hadn't steeped himself in conspiracy his whole life long, as men like Robert Cecil and Nick Skeres had done, but he could see the advantages to keeping to himself anything that might prove dangerous if anyone else knew it.

Kate, unfortunately, saw he was holding back. "You're telling me less than you might," she said, more in sorrow than in accusation.

"Telling you aught is more than I should," Shakespeare said, and then, "Telling you that is more than I should."

He paused, hoping she would take the point. She did. She was ignorant, but far from stupid. "I'll ask no more, then," she said. "Go on. Curfew draws nigh." She lowered her voice to add, "G.o.d keep thee."

"And thee," Shakespeare answered. He rose from the stool where he'd perched most of the evening, bowed over her hand and kissed it, and left the ordinary for his lodging.

The night was foggy and dank. The moon, not quite two weeks after what the Catholic Church called Easter Sunday, was nearly new. It wouldn't rise till just before sunrise, and wouldn't pierce the mist once it did. A stranger abroad in the London night would get hopelessly lost in moments. Shakespeare intended to go back to the Widow Kendall's house more by the way the street felt under the soles of his feet and by smell than by sight.

His intention collapsed about a dozen paces outside the ordinary. Somebody came hurrying up from the direction of his lodging house. The fog m.u.f.fled sound, too, so Shakespeare heard only the last few footfalls before the fellow b.u.mped into him. "Oof!" he said, and then, "Have a care, an't please you!"

"Will! Is that you?" The other man's voice came out of darkness impenetrable.

Shakespeare knew it all the same. He wished he didn't. "Kit?" he replied, apprehension making him squeak like a youth. "Why come you hither?"

"Oh, G.o.d be praised!" Christopher Marlowe exclaimed--a sure danger sign, for when all went well he was likelier to take the Lord's name in vain than to pet.i.tion Him with prayer. "Help me, Will! Sweet Jesu, help you me! They bay at my heels, closer every minute."

Ice ran through Shakespeare. "Who dogs you? And for what?" Is it peculiar to you alone, or hath ruin o'erwhelmed all?

"Who?" Marlowe's voice fluttered like a candle flame in a breeze. "The dons, that's who!"

"Mother Mary!" Shakespeare said, an oath he never would have chosen had the Spaniards not landed on English soil. He realized that later; at the moment, panic tried to rise up and choke him, so that he almost turned and fled at random through the shrouded streets of London. Something, though, made him repeat, "Why seek they you?"

"You know I fancy boys," Marlowe began, and some of Shakespeare's panic fell from his shoulders like a discarded cloak.

"Belike half of London knows you fancy boys," Shakespeare answered; the other poet had never figured out the virtues inherent in simply keeping his mouth shut. But if the dons wanted him because he fancied boys . . .They did. Marlowe said, "Anthony Bacon was but the first. They'd fain rid the realm of all sodomites and ingles, and so they'll put me on the gallows if I into their hands do fall. But how could I be otherwise?

Nature that framed us of our elements, warring within our b.r.e.a.s.t.s for regiment, did shape me so."

Even on the brink of dreadful death, he struggled to justify himself. That constance left Shakespeare half saddened, half amused--and altogether frightened. "What would you of me?" he asked.

"Why, to help me fly, of course," the other poet answered.

"And how, prithee, might I do that?" Shakespeare demanded. "Am I Daedalus, to give thee wings?" He didn't know himself whether he used thee with Marlowe for the sake of intimacy or insult. Exasperated, he went on, "E'en had I wings to give thee, belike thou'dst fly too near the sun, another Icarus, and plummet into the briny sea."

"Twit me, rate me, as thou wouldst, so that thou help me," Marlowe said. "For in sooth, dear Will"--he laughed a ragged laugh--"where's the harm in loving boys? Quoth Jove, dandling his favorite upon his knee,

'Come, gentle Ganymede and play with me; I love thee well, say Juno what she will.' "

Shakespeare burst out laughing. He couldn't help himself. Only Marlowe could be vain enough to recite the opening lines from one of his own plays in such an extremity. With pleasure more than a little malicious, Shakespeare used a high, thin, piping voice to give back Ganymede's reply from Dido, Queen of Carthage:

" 'I would have a jewel for mine ear, And a fine brooch to put in my hat, And then I'll hug with you an hundred times.' "

Marlowe hissed like a man trying to bear a wound bravely. "And here, Will, I thought you never paid my verses proper heed. Would I had been wrong."

"Would you had . . ." Shakespeare shook his head. "No, never mind. 'Tis of no moment now. You must get hence, if they dog you for this. Want you money?"

"Nay. What I have sufficeth me," Marlowe answered.

"Then what think you I might do that you cannot for yourself?" Shakespeare asked. "Hie yourself down to the river. Take ship, if any ship there be that sails on the instant. If there be none such, take a boat away from London, and the first ship you may. So that you outspeed the hue and cry at your heels, all may yet be well, or well enough."

"Or well enough," Marlowe echoed gloomily. "But hark you, Will: 'well enough' is not. Even 'well' isscarce well enough."

Nothing ever satisfied him. Shakespeare had known that as long as he'd known the other poet. Marlowe had a jackdaw's curiosity, and a jackdaw's inability to hold a course when something--or someone--new and bright and shiny caught his eye. Shakespeare stepped forward and reached out in the fog. One groping hand grazed Marlowe's face. He dropped it to Marlowe's shoulder. "G.o.d speed you, Kit. Get safe away, and come home again when . . . when times are better."